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Prospect

 In nine worlds remember, nine trees, the great central tree, beneath the earth. All that and soundings of whales, whole whales, from big sea. In the future thought of now, posted to believeable, grand lakes proved wetter, mud more desperate. No imagination could contain the legend of dull red hats. Only encumbered words, like Satan’s last year shoes. We feel the waves of sinking. Each word has been plain and itemized, collated as belief.

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